


Home

by lostyourwar



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:48:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostyourwar/pseuds/lostyourwar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then there was Ian fucking Gallagher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

Hazy O-like shapes finally blew out of his mouth in little puffs. It was only his fifth fucking try. His hand blindly batted the air- he thought moving his head might ruin the effect- before striking Mickey’s arm and gripping onto it, interrupting their amicably silent stroll to better show him the trick he'd "mastered". Mickey couldn't help but grin as he watched Ian's face turn the color of his hair. He was fighting the burn in his throat, accidentally biting into Mickey's flesh with his fingernails, and managed to make a shape he'd insist is heart-shaped before sputtering the rest of the smoke out in a hacking cough. Laughter filled the desolate stillness that was the Southside baseball field they were in. A hand, fingers branded with the word "FUCK", plucked the cigarette out from between the redhead's lips easily, and he moved swiftly to avoid Ian’s encompassing limbs. When they reached the very center of the old field, where the pitcher's mound was supposed to be, they ceased their lighthearted romp. Grass had begun to grow in patches on the dirt, which worked well for Ian's plan- and not quite as well for the kids who liked to played there, honestly. The redhead kneeled and got to work. 

Flickering flourescent lights dimly illuminated the run-down ballpark. Apparently, there was no money left in the community to keep up its maintenance, so the kids simply learned to play around the grass. There were even less funds to replace the bulbs, so they’d just decided that all the games were to be held in the daylight. It was a Southside solution if they’d ever heard of one. Beyond the dull glare of the less-than-functional stadium lights, the world was absolutely atramentous. What had been a gloomy day steadily became a gloomy night, so even the moon was obscured by the ominous clouds that hung dark and heavy above them. Mickey was still standing, mildly enjoying the view he was getting. Ian stretched his body out, legs wide open, to extend the corners of the blanket and hold them down. His shirt was one of those tighter ones he liked to wear, so Mickey saw every muscle in his back working beneath it. According to Ian, he'd brought one of his old blankets from when he wanted to join the army. Almost as if to emphasize the point, the damn thing was covered in a half-assed camouflage pattern and reeked of stale weed. 

“Tell me again why we’re doing this?”

"Sure," Ian grunted, satisfied with how wide the blanket had been spread. He turned to toss his body across the bedspread and meet the other boy's eyes with an inviting expression. Mickey tried to ignore the way his stomach fluttered when Ian smirked mischievously up at him. "I convinced you fucking in the middle of this field would be super hot."

 _There we go_ , was his only thought, as heat rushed down his body to his groin. How Ian managed to say that type of shit with a straight face was beyond him. He felt dazed as his cheeks inadvertently flushed a bright crimson. Goosebumps spread over his body, and he bit his lip as he looked at the other man. He barely heard himself speak. “You didn’t want to fuck here.”

He didn’t. Yesterday, after breakfast, Ian had told him they were going to “spread a blanket out and look for shooting stars now that the town had shut down the sprinklers"- said it just like that, didn’t even bother to ask Mickey for his opinion on the matter. Clearly, he was mocking him, reminding him of the time when he pretended he wasn't helplessly in love with Gallagher. So he’d protested, arguing that they should at least fuck again, that it was their tradition to get back at the shitty little league coach he still hated and at his dad and fuck, at the world. Ian had reluctantly accepted.

"Well, I’m not gonna refuse," he professed with a shrug before bringing his hands up to hold the back of his head, so his shirt rode up and revealed how his jeans hung low. It took mostly all of Mickey's energy to control himself, to keep from devouring every enticing bit the man laying beneath him offered. As such, he was too preoccupied to hide his blatant ogling. Ian noticed it, and seemed to preen at the attention.

Fuck, heat was already stirring in his jeans, but he’d been attempting to articulate something earlier. He dragged his eyes up after a minute, and actually managed to vaguely see the moon behind the clouds. “We can’t look for shooting stars," he commented, "You can barely see the fucking moon.”

Ian's face lit up. Even that, the simple fact that he was considering his boyfriend's wants before his own, remarkably brightened the redhead's mood. He sat up effortlessly, and held out his hands, clenching at the air like Yev would when he wanted his dad to carry him. Mickey scowled at the gesture. He still didn’t know how to feel about the kid; besides, he definitely wasn’t going to carry around this damn beanstalk. “Come on, let’s fuck then,” Ian said with an eyeroll to punctuate

He went eagerly, allowed long limbs to tangle with his own, and their mouths met with a hunger that still showed no signs of abating. Much to his surprise, this had turned out to be Mickey's favorite part. He was only slightly annoyed that he’d waited so long to let it happen, but he loved kissing. He didn't understand how the taste of toothpaste and cigarettes could be so delicious, but it was. And it had to be a talent the way Ian knew just how to move his tongue against Mickey's, to shoot waves of pleasure through his body and then massage it until he was pliable and relaxed. Mickey rolled them around until he sat on Ian's waist, and rocked his hips slowly as jolts of electricity shook him from the inside. The boy's head was on the grass now, but they were already too carried away to fix that. He took the opportunity, now that Ian was just as receptive, to take his wrists and pin them over his head. He gripped at the long blades of grass, and merely admired the glowing face he never stopped thinking about. That, yeah, _that_ was probably his biggest turn-on: Ian's sparkling eyes, green and uncontrived, regarding him serenely with open trust. Nobody looked at him like that. Sometimes he struck fear in the people from his neighborhood, people he'd fought, people who thought he was just like Terry. Other times, he garnered sneers from his neighbors. It didn't matter, people didn't like Mickey; he didn't care much for anybody anyway. And then there was Ian fucking Gallagher.

He tilted his head down with the tip of his tongue poking out, and just licked the other boy's swollen lips. He pulled back to smile into that clear gaze. “You taste like smoke.”

A glimmer in his eye, “You taste like you love me.”

It nearly made him pull away. They still hadn't said it, were both still learning how to love each other properly, but it was there. It didn't have a title but it existed in the way they looked at each other, the way they could speak without words, the way they were "IanandMickey" to their families. It was a game, he was baiting him, and Mickey wouldn't let him win so easily.

“You taste like my dick,” Mickey answered readily, letting go of his wrists to stick his thumb in his mouth, making a gesture to imitate the act of oral sex. Ian bit his lip, trying not to laugh. His hands never fell back to his sides; he was exposed with Mickey, and comfortable that way.

"You taste like you want me inside you."

"You taste like a little bitch," Mickey grinned, and took the open invitation to tickle his unprotected ribs. Ian crumpled, bursting into loud shrieks of laughter and thrashing arms and legs. He roughly shoved him off, and got up on all fours to crawl away into the grass. Mickey snorted at the action, pausing only for a moment to marvel at his boyfriend's nice ass; then he grabbed an ankle and dragged him back.

"Noo!" Ian bellowed when Mickey remembered he was extremely ticklish in the back of his knee. His leg kicked out involuntarily, and Mickey just narrowly avoided the hit to his face. He tugged Ian back into his arms, but rather than continue the blithe assault, he pressed a kiss into his red hair, like Ian did after they beat Terry’s face in. At that time, it had sealed the day off, had made him feel safe and victorious; he wanted to return the gesture now. When Ian realized the game was over, he brought his arm up to press Mickey into his side. The man snuggled his head in, tossed an arm over him and scratched his fingers against his boyfriend's pec. Ian stared at him like he’d grown a third head.

Fuck, Mickey was so pathetically in love with Ian Gallagher it was embarrassing. Sure, fucking on the pitcher's mound would be great, but more than anything he wanted to satisfy the boy’s every desire, fulfill his every whim. The arm around him tightened, and Ian did that thing where he tangled his leg in Mickey’s as he yawned quietly. It had to be because he was completely whipped, but he found himself thinking that Ian's contentment pleased him more than sex.

"Pretty sure there's at least one behind that cloud," he pointed and Ian laughed. They couldn’t look for shooting stars, not really, but this was enough, more than enough. Terry was rotting in prison, Svetlana was something like a friend, and Ian wasn't stuck in bed anymore. For the time being, at least, things were really good. He’d never been quite this happy before, never even dreamt it was possible. It was intoxicating.

Ian idly ran a finger down his arm, still simpering, and murmured, “You taste like home.”

 _Home._ That was the word. Mickey had never known the meaning of the word, had only ever had a house he occasionally slept in. He had never understood the importance of a home. There was no place in the world where Mickey would settle, no where he'd ever let himself be free. And then there was Ian fucking Gallagher, who came along, housed his fears and his joys and his secrets and his passions, kept him warm and safe. Just like that, without ever moving a muscle, Mickey had found his home.

The clouds moved just enough for the moon to appear, and they made appreciative sounds. "Mick," Ian breathed, conscious now of how much their voices echoed, and poked a finger against his cheek. "We spread a blanket out and, well, we're unsuccessful but we _are_ looking for shooting stars so..."

"Yeah, well."

Ian stopped teasing him, but it hung in the air like it always did. It still wasn't time, he didn't know when he'd stop being such chicken shit, but it wasn't quite then. They had enough.

**Author's Note:**

> i tried so hard to make this not a one-word title but alas, i have failed you, friends. this is the first thing that's not from my journal so it might be kinda weird, i just needed something happy here. idk i like reading it so that's a good sign. i hope you like reading it too


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